Black dog unfair business
by witchfingers
Summary: …but, if you're Hagrid, lost in a reverie of dullness and heartache and shame, you're not the inhabitant of Azkaban that it's having it the worst. Because, a couple of cells removed from yours, there's a prisoner who, against all odds, has it worse than anyone else. Because, if you're Sirius Black, you're sane.


.

.

.

Azkaban is a detestable place, yes, but detestable alone doesn't even begin to cover it.

Here, it is desolation, here it is winter forever, here it is your parents dead and leaving you orphaned and the dreadful stench of rotting tree leaves, here, nothing is disgusting enough to shake you up, but everything is void. _Makes_ you void.

Unfeeling is better than feeling, for sure, here where it is dark but not black, here where it is cold but it cannot give you frostbite.

Here, you dream of when you were a child and you found your unmoving pet lying still, here your friends do not come to your birthday party. If you're old, you have the comfort of glum memories replacing one another, but if you're young, the few you have replay themselves, over and over.

If you're Hagrid, you see Aragog running away, Tom pointing a wand at you, everyone disappointed; and you see their faces blurring to the time where your father and you were barricaded inside your house and your mother was frantically picking up huge flowerprinted dresses, to flee the growing mob outside. If you're Hagrid, you're seeing Fang's parents torn by a vicious, wild Manticore. You're seeing every pet you had die, and you're eleven years old all over again and holding your precious copy of _Fantastic Beasts_ , yes, the one that Scamander himself had autographed, now mauled beyond repair by a cruel group of third-year Gryffindor pranksters.

And, if you're Hagrid, snuggled up in the corner of a dank cell reserved for half-breeds, you're reliving your worst memories as if they were happening to you all over again, but, if you're Hagrid, lost in a reverie of dullness and heartache and shame, you're not the inhabitant of Azkaban that it's having it the worst.

Because, a couple of cells removed from yours, there's a prisoner who, against all odds, has it worse than anyone else. Because, if you're Sirius Black, you're sane, and this means you're almost as good as cursed.

You recognized Hagrid as they brought him in, shackled, head bowed, feet dragging past the bars of your cell. This gave you a memory that distracted you, gave you respite, allowed you a pleasant recollection of a night spent sneaking firewhiskey into his hut with your old chums, one of whom is dead, another one you thought had betrayed you and hadn't, and the third one you thought you could trust and actually couldn't. But the memory of the scent of roasting meat and lukewarm butterbeet in Hagrid's hut cut the sad thoughts with ghostly laughter and sixteen-year-old cares.

Remember, Sirius? Hagrid had a puppy, Fang, he'd called it. You could know straight away that it knew _what_ you were, ah, Pads, ol'boy, you smelled straight away you had a new partner in crime to raid the kitchens in Yule when everyone else was away home. And, remember, Sirius? Hagrid had a basket full of suspicious-looking worms, which you had only seen before when you'd snuck into Knockturn Alley to buy the alcohol you weren't supposed to be able to buy. Yes, haha, remember, Sirius! James was wearing that ridiculous knitted sweater after he'd lost that bet to McKinnon, or had it actually been Evans…? It must have been Evans, otherwise good ol'Prongs would've charmed his way out of it. Yes, look, that's Moony absentmindedly itching one of his newest scars, while pretending he's not actually outdrinking all of you, which he totally is, and very skillfully. Hagrid's retelling that memorable story you never tire of listening to, of the time he thought he'd finally gotten his hands on a rare dragon egg, and his simultaneous disappointment, surprise, glee, horror, pride, and other handful conflicting emotions when it hatched and actually turned out to be an Occamy. You're all holding your bellies with laughter when you come to the part where Flitwick finds out and all hell breaks loose in the Ravenclaw common room, where Hagrid's paramour of the moment had to pretend to know nothing about the whole business.

Ah, good times, good times. And Peter, like always, successfully snuck into the kitchens and transported chosen desserts. He always _somehow_ manages to get extra chocolate for Moony, which is a dear gesture. The night gets very late, and Hagrid, bless his heart, won't hear anything of letting you all zig-zag back into the castle, badly hidden under James' cloack that doesn't really hide you four any more, no way, you're all hammered! Even he, with his ridiculous height, build, and proportionate alcohol tolerance is plastered! You've got no chance, he slurs, and bids you all to sleep there. You actually do take him up on his offer, since you four fit nicely onto his bed once Peter's shifted into Wormtail. It's all giggles and no one really gives a fuck when Hagrid looks confused for a second there. Ah, he didn't know about the animagus thing, remember, Sirius? _No one_ knew, it was a secret. What a slip. You told him all about it afterwards, remember? You never actually _showed him,_ some part had to remain secret and heaven forbid he tried to _pet_ you… but you four, shit-faced, you spilled to him every detail- Moony's furry deal and all, and no one even _thought_ of obliviating the man. Hagrid, really? Even if you'd been sober and he'd found out somehow different you'd still all have trusted him, he'd earned it.

He never told. Good man, Hagrid. He _never_ told. Sirius, if you broke free now and miraculously got off the island, you could roam the streets as Padfoot and ask for treats _and no one would know_.

(It's a solid thought. It's neither good nor bad. You can keep it.)

… if you're Sirius Black, you've been in Azkaban for years now.

There is no way for you to really tell how long it's been, but you've seen your hands knot and the ink in your tattoos fade from black to blue to green. It's been a long while. And there's no way for you to actually tell how long it's been when you see the guards dragging Hagrid again, but this time towards the light of day, for sure, and you hope it's not been _that_ long, because folks are known to lose their mind in here.

Yes, if you're Sirius Black, you've been here many years but your mind is very sharp, you've not lost it- it's only a bit battered, but it's because loneliness alone normally does that to a man.

You see them drag Hagrid past your bars again.

'I'm innocent, Hagrid,' you slur, 'Sirius… it's _me_. Sirius Black. And I'm innocent.'

… if you're Hagrid, you think you've heard something, so you turn. The guardians of Azkaban are blind, so there really is no point to asking why they've got a dog (regardless of how huge it is) locked in a cell. So you walk past.

Many months go by, the school year ends, in drawls the summer with its long nights filled with magical fireflies hovering over the still waters of the lake. One day, you the newspaper says that Sirius Black escaped Azkaban. Good kid, you remember him very well. Terrible at chess. Fang loved him. Actually probably you owe him a charmed bike, too.

It's such an unfair business, how he spent all those years in Azkaban, being innocent and all.

Wait… _what_?

.

.

.


End file.
